


Always a Self-Portrait, or how John and Sherlock celebrated Halloween

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: At the turning of the year [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Halloweenlock 2015, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4980508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interleaved 5+1 accounts of what happened to John and Sherlock on Oct. 31 at various times in their lives</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doctor John

**Author's Note:**

> This started out to be a simple, short 5+1 about John Watson's Halloween costumes, then Sherlock pushed his way in as well. Will publish one chapter a day, alternating between John and Sherlock. May include an epilogue that will go beyond the teen rating. Not beta'd or britpicked, so if you see any errors or typos, give a shout. Extra treats to those who leave kudos or comments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even as a child, John takes care of people. It's just what he does.

"John! Johnny! Wait!"  
John huffed a sigh and shuffled his feet more slowly through the fallen leaves to give Harry time to catch up. His school trousers dragged on the pavement at his heels, and he knew that if they frayed, his mum would have something to say about it.  
Why couldn't she hem them to the proper length, like other mums did? It wasn't his fault that he was short and his trousers never fit properly.  
Harry passed him a moment later, forcing him to speed up to keep her from getting too far ahead. It was his job to see that Harry got home from school safely, after all. His parents had impressed that on him when term started. With his mother taking a job, she would no longer be meeting Harry -- or John for that matter -- at the school gate. John was eleven to Harry’s eight, and Harry didn’t understand why anyone had to be responsible for seeing her home.  
John ran ahead, chasing his sister until he passed her, letting her chase and overtake him, making a game of it so she was laughing and breathless when he fished the key to the front door out of his pocket.  
“I’m hungry, Johnny,” she said as she dropped her rucksack in the hall and went to turn on the telly.  
“No telly until you’ve done your schoolwork,” John said, stepping between her and the television. “Mum said.”  
“Jo-ohnny …” Lord, but Harry could whine.  
“Come in the kitchen and get started while I make us a snack.”  
John hung his jacket on the hook and went into the kitchen, Harry following. He pulled out bread and put it in the toaster while she settled at the table.  
“What are you going to be for Halloween?” she asked. “I don’t know what to be. All the girls want to be princesses, but I don’t want that. Do you think mum would buy me a witch costume?”  
“Don’t need a costume for that,” John said, smirking.  
“Johnny,” she protested.  
“No reason to buy a witch costume anyway,” John said. “We can find an old black dress, maybe just buy a hat. We can make a broom. A little bit of green makeup. It’ll look better than any costume from the store, you’ll see.”  
“What about you? What are you going to be?” Harry asked.  
“I’m going to be a doctor,” John said.  
“What -- like granddad?” she asked.  
“Well, sort of, I guess,” John said. “I am going to use the stethoscope he gave me. But I don’t want to be an old GP in a white coat. I haven’t got one anyway. But Paul’s brother works at the hospital, and Paul said he could get me a scrub shirt -- you know, like the docs in the A & E wore when I was there with my arm. I want to look like one of them -- jeans and a scrub shirt and a stethoscope. I can even wear my trainers.”  
John smiled, a real smile. He wanted to see himself as a doctor. He’d told his teacher he wanted to be a doctor, and she said he had the aptitude for it if he worked hard. When he’d mentioned it at dinner, though, his father scoffed. “Bit grand for the likes of us,” he said. “Your mum’s dad was a doctor -- but it took the army to pay for that. And we’ve come down a bit in the world.”  
His mum, though, had looked at him fondly and said, “You’d make a wonderful doctor, Johnny.”  
His smile lingered at the memory. He knew she was tired when she got home from work, but maybe his mum could teach him to sew a witch’s cape for Harry. And then he could fix his own trousers. Sewing would be a handy skill for a doctor, right?  
Harry smiled, too. “You’ll help me make my costume, won’t you?” she asked. “Only I don’t want to look like all the girls in pink and sparkles. I want to be scary. That’s what Halloween is about.”  
“Halloween is about being anything you want,” John told her.


	2. Pirate Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to a school Halloween party

Sherlock drew the cardboard cutlass from his belt and brandished it at Mycroft.  
“I’ll make you walk the plank, you scurvy knave!” he yelled. “I claim this ship for myself and my trusty mate Redbeard!”  
Sherlock lunged, his black tricorn hat slipping down to rest over the patch that covered his left eye.  
“I’ll see you in Davy Jones’ locker first!” Mycroft returned, just as enthusiastically.  
Still, the drama lost something as Mycroft looked like a slightly undersized banker, complete with tailored three-piece suit and furled umbrella. At 14, he would no more come home still in his school uniform than he would be caught out of his bedroom in pajamas.  
“What are you doing home, Myc?” Sherlock asked, breaking character for a moment. “I didn’t think you had a holiday for Halloween.”  
Mycroft straightened the hat on his small brother’s curls and said, “Well, I don’t, strictly speaking. But I had some business to discuss with Mummy and Father, and I wanted to see what kind of a pirate you made this year.”  
Sherlock giggled and stood back, striking a pose to show off the tall leather boots, the white shirt with laces at the throat, the blood-red coat.  
“Going all out, I see,” Mycroft said, smiling. “Mummy said as soon as you finish your tea I’m to walk you to school.”  
Sherlock made a beeline to the kitchen, sitting at the table and tucking into the food his mother set in front of him. His school was hosting a Halloween party this year, and Sherlock couldn’t wait to appear as a pirate among his seven-year-old peers.  
Mycroft had already expressed his misgivings to his parents. While he had been at Eton since Sherlock started primary school, he knew from his parents that Sherlock was not a social success. He never was invited to his classmates’ homes and he never brought any other children home with him.  
Mycroft didn’t know what Sherlock thought about this fact. His brother was undoubtedly of superior intelligence, as Mycroft was himself, and seemed to observe the things most people missed without any visible effort. But he didn’t understand how to be quiet about what he knew, ruffling feathers unnecessarily and giving up the advantage of having information that no one else knew he had. For Sherlock, the joy was in the knowing, not in making use of the knowledge.  
So when Sherlock told his parents he wanted to go to the school Halloween party, they were cautiously optimistic. They told Mycroft, who was mildly concerned. Mycroft made arrangements to come home for the weekend -- it really was not difficult to do more or less as he pleased -- and planned to make his own observations.  
When the brothers arrived at the school gate, Sherlock broke away. “Come back in two hours, Myc!” Sherlock called. “I'll have a big bag of loot!”  
“I think I’ll wait here at the school, Captain,” Mycroft said. “There’s one or two old teachers I want to look up.”  
Sherlock tossed a disbelieving look over his shoulder -- yes, he was observant, Mycroft thought -- and ran ahead.  
Mycroft followed more slowly behind, wandering past the door of the school hall every two or three minutes. What he saw surprised him.  
Sherlock was not hovering at the edges of groups of children, awkwardly trying to join their conversations and being closed out. Rather, he was circling the room, playing each game in turn, using his skills of observation to figure out the trick and walk away with a prize every time.  
When the teachers and volunteers running the games engaged him, Sherlock played his pirate role to the hilt, and seemed to enjoy it. The other children left Sherlock alone, for the most part, although Mycroft caught some looks of resentment directed towards his brother.  
Sherlock strutted and mugged through the costume parade, and walked away with a prize for that as well.  
Mycroft was waiting near the door as Sherlock started to leave, and saw him intercepted by two of the bigger boys, both dressed as zombies.  
“Sherlock,” one said. “You’ve got lots of candy there. How about sharing some of that?”  
Sherlock reached into his sack and dropped a scant handful in each of the boys’ bags.  
“Oi, Sherlock, share and share alike,” the other boy said, reaching for Sherlock’s loot.  
“No,” Sherlock said. “I won this. Just because you couldn’t win anything doesn’t mean I should share.”  
“Because you’re a freak,” the first boy said, taking a step towards Sherlock.  
Mycroft had heard enough. He entered the room and loomed over the backs of the two zombies.  
“Are you ready to go home, Sherlock?” he asked, one eyebrow up. “Or shall we run these zombies through?”  
“Let’s go home, Myc,” Sherlock said.  
He didn’t bring the altercation up again. Mycroft wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or concerned.


	3. Gorilla John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes ape on Halloween.

“So what are you going to be, John?”  
Mike Stamford wanted to make sure that everyone would be in costume for the Halloween party he was throwing in his room. He said it would be more fun if everyone dressed up. John didn’t really see the point; it would be a party like nearly all the others, a chance for the students to blow off steam by drinking too much, and, if they were fortunate, get a snog and a grope. If they were very fortunate, they might find a quiet place and a willing partner to get off with. Who needed costumes for that?  
John decided to stay with his go-to costume since he was a child. It had served him well so far, he thought.  
“Dunno, maybe I’ll just be a doctor,” he said.  
Mike looked at him, incredulous.  
“A doctor, mate? How is that a costume? You’re in bloody medical school. You’ll _be_ a doctor in a few years,” Stamford said. “You’re not getting this at all. What, did you go to one of those church schools that made kids dress up like saints for Halloween or something? This is supposed to be fun.”  
“I don’t really have anything to wear,” John said, hoping he wouldn’t have to spell out the fact that it was taking every penny he could scrape together to get himself through school, and the extra job he worked barely left him enough time to study. He knew medical school would be a challenge, but the first few weeks was even more of a grind than he expected. Taking the time to come up with something creative wasn’t too likely either.  
Jovial, friendly Mike Stamford didn’t need the obvious spelled out.  
“Let me see what I can think of. You could always cut out a big circle of green paper and say you’re a green M &M -- you know what they say about green M&M’s, and Janet will be there,” Stamford said.  
“Janet Williams?” John asked. “She’s the one with the dark hair from chem, right?”  
“Come on, John, I know you fancy her. Don’t act like you don’t know who she is. I made sure she was coming because of you,” Stamford said.  
“All right,” John said. “But no green M&M costume. I like her, but I don’t want to give her the wrong idea.”  
“What wrong idea?” Stamford said, arranging his face into a leer. “You wouldn’t say no to a chance of --”  
“Stop it, Mike,” John said. “I like her, I think she’s attractive. I won’t go further than that.”  
John grinned.  
“Besides, I’ve found a reputation for discretion very handy when it comes to looking for dates,” John said.  
“Dates, huh?” Mike smirked. “OK, I’ll keep my eyes and ears out for a costume for you.”  
******  
For what felt like the 40th time, John scrunched his face, fighting the itch and trying to see through the eyeholes. The gorilla suit he wore was large, hot and, well, smelly. Sort of like the gorilla house at the zoo.  
Mike had turned up with it in the afternoon, just as John had been hoping he could sling his stethoscope around his neck and go as himself, five years older. A mate had taken it in payment for some old CDs that he lent someone who couldn’t find them to return them, Mike said. After only a couple of weeks of having it in his wardrobe, Mike’s friend couldn’t wait to get rid of it. Its smell had started to cling to the rest of his clothes.  
“Come on, John,” Mike said. “You’ll be a beast out there.”  
Mike guffawed at his own joke.  
Well, John certainly felt beastly. His mood wasn’t improved by being the only sober student in the room; it was just too hard to drink with the gorilla head on, and it looked ridiculous to take it off. The others were at the point where buzzed slipped into inebriation; the jokes were a bit too loud, the gestures a bit too big. He occupied himself by suggesting water to people in search of a drink -- being hydrated would help with the inevitable hangovers the next day -- and steering people to the loo.  
In between acts of good samaritanship, he peered through the gorilla’s eyes and watched Janet Williams snogging on the sofa with someone who was definitely not him. He didn’t know who the lucky devil (yes, devil, complete with horns, tail and pitchfork) was, but he would have given all the bananas in the bunch to change places with him.  
Halloween was definitely not his favorite holiday.


	4. Sherlock's trick-or-treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets "trick-or-treaters"

When Mycroft first went to Eton, Sherlock couldn’t wait to go too. If Mycroft did it, then Sherlock wanted to do it too.  
It didn’t take Sherlock long -- maybe five or ten minutes -- to understand that by the time he got to go to Eton, Mycroft would have moved on. But that was all right; if Mycroft thought it was important to go to school, then Sherlock wanted to go to school.  
That attitude lasted about an hour after Sherlock arrived. The first 30 minutes were taken up with assuring his parents that he would be all right and seeing them off. It was the next 30 minutes that did it.  
It didn’t seem that Sherlock could say or do anything right for the other boys in his hall. He tried to be friendly, inquiring of one boy how long his father had been out of the country (Sherlock thought he did well by not mentioning that the father had no intention of returning) and asking another if he was worried about the health of his elderly dog.  
Conversely, Sherlock had no answer when someone asked him which was his favorite football team, and launched into a far too detailed response about the wonders of chemistry when someone asked him what his favourite subject was.  
It was like primary school all over again when he heard the first “freak” muttered under someone’s breath, only this was worse. This was the place where Mycroft had come into his own, where he learned to control his environment by drawing people in until they felt they had no choice but to cooperate with him. But Sherlock knew now that Eton would not embrace him as it had his brother.  
Before Halloween, at the short leave, Sherlock’s mother asked whether he wanted her to send along enough of his pirate gear to make a costume. There was a party to which students wore costumes, she knew from Mycroft's school years, and it was unthinkable for Sherlock to be anything else.  
Sherlock had acquiesced. It was easier than saying no. But he knew that no one at school would ever see him dress as a pirate. When he was a small boy, his heart was set on captaining a marauding ship on the high seas. There was no way he would trust the other boys with a glimpse of his heart, or even what his heart had once wanted.  
So when Halloween came, and the other boys hooted and hollered through the corridors waiting for their chance to hide behind their disguises and consume massive quantities of sugar, Sherlock took himself through his classes just like any other day, and after his last class, he headed for the labs.  
Sherlock was making his way back from the chemistry lab when he found himself confronted by three boys on the path. The three all wore masks -- one a werewolf, one the Joker from the Dark Knight movie, one an American politician Sherlock knew nothing about. Before he could think of a way to get past them, they started pelting him with eggs, screaming “trick or treat” at the top of their lungs.  
“I haven’t got any treats for you,” Sherlock protested, wiping egg white off his eyebrow.  
“That’s the treat,” one boy yelled. “We get to trick you.”  
“Not really,” Sherlock said. “Come on, Jack. Throwing eggs at someone is annoying, but hardly a trick. At least, Philip, you should know better.”  
“Wait,” Philip said. “You know who we are?”  
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Let’s make a deal: You let me go home, and I don’t say I know who did this when someone asks.”  
Maybe Mycroft was onto something with politics, Sherlock thought as he made it the rest of the way to his room without further trouble. A win-win, as the saying went. Then again, maybe not, he thought, as he opened his laptop and routed an anonymous message through a series of IP addresses. The message to the housemaster said just where to look for the stash of liquor his attackers kept hidden.


	5. Gorilla John, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wears the gorilla suit again, on a horrible Halloween

For the life of him, John couldn’t think why he still had the gorilla suit.  
After the disastrous Halloween party at Mike’s, John bundled the suit back into the tattered cardboard box Mike had used to bring it over. He shoved it in the corner of his room; then, when the sight (and the smell) got too annoying, he stowed it on the shelves his landlord allowed him to use in the basement.  
He had avoided Halloween celebrations assiduously after that night. He begged off, saying he had to spend the time revising. He volunteered to open the door and distribute candy to the children who came trick-or-treating. Now, approaching the end of his time in medical school, he spent more time in clinical rotations than in the classroom, and he figured that offered him the best excuse yet: he volunteered to work so the other students could go out. It would be a double win, he thought: no one would be asking him to dress up and make a fool of himself and everyone else would be grateful.  
Nobody told him until he was on the schedule for the pediatric oncology ward that all the staff were expected to dress up, to make it more festive for the kids. Too many of them couldn’t wear anything but hospital gowns, which offered ease of access for the IV tubes and monitor wires. Masks and wigs got in the way; the nurses did what they could with light makeup, but it wasn’t much fun. A few years ago, someone had the bright idea of having the staff dress up and deliver treats, and that was what John Watson had signed up for.  
In this case, being a doctor for Halloween obviously wouldn’t work. The last thing these kids needed was to see another doctor. He had been thinking about joining the army -- that would help pay for him to continue his education and qualify as a surgeon -- but he thought the head nurse would object if he dressed as a soldier. She always struck him as a pacifist.  
Besides, it was hard to beat a gorilla suit for an impressive costume. It might help him get a good recommendation for that surgical course.  
John carried the gorilla suit into the hospital in the same battered box, stowing it in the locker room until it was time for the reverse trick-or-treating. He took the ribbing from the nurses and techs (“Are you going as a bearskin rug? Or a skunk without a stripe?”).  
He followed the attending physician on rounds, finished charting and then went to the locker room to become a goofy gorilla. He’d added a pair of Hawaiian print shorts and several bunches of bananas that he could give as treats for the kids who could eat them.  
The first room John walked into erupted into giggles at his antics, making monkey noises and pretending to pick insects out of the kids’ pretend hair. The second room was even better, with kids clamoring to catch the bananas he was tossing around. He even got a few smiles dancing around in front of the windows of the isolation rooms that he couldn’t enter in costume.  
The gorilla suit still wasn’t comfortable, but John found that he was enjoying himself despite it. Or maybe because of it. For once, he was having fun on Halloween.  
Until a monitor started beeping, a code was called, and medical personnel began running to one of the rooms. John struggled to get the gorilla mask off his head and to unzip the costume from the back as he rushed to keep up so he could help.  
He made it into the room with the costume hanging at his waist. There was no way he could get the bottom half off quickly with those shorts on. He made himself useful, grabbing supplies and holding things as the doctors tried to keep the small girl in the bed from dying.  
John had been on rounds earlier, and he knew this girl. Well, no, not really. He barely remembered her name. But he remembered the details of her case. She was five years old. She wasn’t supposed to die, at least not that night. They were trying to keep her alive until they could find a bone marrow donor. They had less time than they thought.  
When the doctors gave up and the nurses cleared the room, John stayed, waiting with the small body for someone to come and take it -- her -- to the morgue. He stood there with his legs clad in synthetic gorilla fur and Hawaiian shorts, with a stethoscope slung around his neck over his scrub shirt. Halloween was a useless holiday, almost as useless as an almost-doctor dressed up like a gorilla.


	6. Sherlock Makes a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a friend, who brings over "treats"

Sherlock had felt fortunate that he was allowed to complete his A-levels and leave Eton for uni a year early. He rather thought Eton felt the same.  
And he was fortunate, he really was, he told himself. Cambridge was no hive of intellectual activity, and there were only a very few who could teach Sherlock anything when it came to chemistry, but there were people who at least understood what Sherlock was working on, and the labs were up-to-date and kitted out well. Really, it was a vast improvement.  
Socially, Sherlock couldn't really say he had many more friends than at school; he'd long since given up trying to make friends. Most people seemed a bit frightened of him, whether because he amused himself by announcing their sexual proclivities and recreational drugs of choice or because of the way he snapped when other students asked for his help.  
Sherlock thought that might be changing today. Today he had the bad (good?) fortune of being set upon by a nasty little dog on the green, giving up a fair bit of the skin on his ankle to the beast's teeth. When the owner ran up, already apologizing, Sherlock grimaced and snarled, "Why would you play into the stereotype of gay men by harboring a lapdog?"  
Instead of being offended, the man just laughed and said, "I know. It's ridiculous really. I kind of inherited him from my last boyfriend. I know who you are -- you're Sherlock Holmes. Victor Trevor. Let me help get that cleaned up."  
The conversation continued in that vein: Sherlock saying something offensive and Victor laughing it off. They made their way to the student health office, where a student worker dabbed at Sherlock’s leg with disinfectant, announced that he wouldn’t need stitches and wrapped it in gauze, with instructions to consult a doctor if it became red, swollen or hot to the touch.  
Sherlock and Victor looked at one another, rolling their eyes. Like they couldn’t have figured that out? Then Sherlock asked the student whether the antibiotics had been effective against the infection she had picked up from her boyfriend. The young woman turned bright-red, glared and hurried from the room. Sherlock glanced up at Victor from where he was seated on the examining table, wondering how his new … friend? … would take it.  
Victor snickered. “Really?”  
“Really,” Sherlock said. “The package was sticking out of her pocket. She was wearing a cladagh ring turned in, so she’s in a relationship, and a truly execrable necklace, so a boy. No girl would have bought that for a lover. So boyfriend. And no one who wears a cladagh ring and wears her boyfriend’s tasteless gifts would be cheating.”  
“Well done,” Victor said, smiling broadly.  
Sherlock felt warmth bloom in his belly. Odd. He’d have to see if he could get Victor to smile again, to see if he could replicate that feeling.  
When Victor left Sherlock at the door to his building, he said, "I know it's Halloween and all, but I'm thinking you shouldn't go out tonight. Can I come and keep you company? I'll bring a treat."  
Victor's expression made Sherlock feel very warm indeed. He was puzzling over the feeling and wasn't sure he said anything before Victor said, "It's a date, then. I'll see you at nine."  
Sherlock was a bit embarrassed at how many times he looked at the clock in the hour before Victor arrived, terrified by turns that he wouldn't come, or that he would.  
Finally, just a few minutes after the hour, Victor knocked. Sherlock hobbled over and open the door to see Victor leaning against the side of it, looking like he'd been indulging in some Halloween libations already. A small bag filled with fine white powder dangled from his fingers just at Sherlock's eye level.  
"Trick-or-treat," he said.


	7. Soldier John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends Halloween as an army doctor

Oct. 31, 2008 was just the same as every other day that autumn for Captain John Watson.  
He woke up early, still in Afghanistan, still in Camp Bastion. He checked on the wounded and ill in his ward, gave instructions to nurses and medical techs, drank bad coffee, played a little footie with the lads. Compared to them, he was ancient, but they were kind enough to not make him feel it too much.  
A local family brought in a child in the afternoon, with a deep laceration that had become infected. He dealt with that, working with the local interpreter to explain the antibiotics he was giving the boy and what the course of treatment should be.  
He continued to monitor his patients and worked on a report with recommendations for having medical officers -- in some cases, doctors -- accompany patrols. Faster treatment would give men who were hurt in the field a better chance at surviving with minimal aftereffects, and it could even improve relations with the local population if the docs could offer any help or advice.  
It was his day to get time on Skype, but he offered it to a young lieutenant who said something about his wife wanting to show off their tiny son’s first costume.  
It wasn’t as if John had anyone he really wanted to talk to anyway. There was Harry, but she would just complain about the ongoing deterioration of her marriage. Was it disloyal to think Clara deserved better than Harry? Was it worse than disloyal to wonder idly whether Clara liked blokes as well as girls? Not that John could ever act on that impulse; if he wanted his head to stay attached from his shoulders, Harry’s soon-to-be ex was off-limits.  
He had no parents he wanted to reach out to. His mother had died just before he shipped out the first time and neither he nor Harry maintained any kind of regular contact with their father.  
No, for him the time was better spent with a paperback mystery novel from the camp library.  
Captain Watson didn’t even think about the holiday until he wrote the date on his last orders before he went off duty and realized that he hadn’t once thought about it being Halloween.  
He gave a rueful chuckle under his breath as he realized that meant it might have been his best Halloween ever. Maybe a little quiet -- his proposal to go on patrols might help with that -- but he was doing good work, work that would make a difference for the patients he treated and their families. By helping people like the boy with the cut, you could even say he was contributing to an atmosphere more conducive to peace. But for once, John Watson felt that he was in his element, doing what he was meant to do.  
For the first time, he couldn’t think of a thing to dress up as. There was nothing else he wanted to be.


	8. Sherlock Makes Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves a crime on Halloween

Sherlock was stumbling back to his hovel of a flat when the flashing lights caught his eye. He detoured through an alley and ducked under the police tape, evading the notice of the constables who were supposed to ward off the morbidly curious. He ended up less than ten feet from a corpse lying crumpled and face down on the pavement.  
Without so much as looking to see who was in charge, Sherlock crouched at the side of the body, taking in everything from the state of the man's haircut and manicure to the toes of his shoes in a single sweeping glance. The details told a story, a story Sherlock could read and, he had learned, other people couldn’t. One thing confused him: Why was the man dressed in blue long underwear and a red cape and boots?  
"Oi, Sherlock Holmes!"  
The voice broke into his thoughts. Excellent. If Detective Sergeant Lestrade was here, someone might actually listen to him before haring off on the wrong path. Still, Sherlock continued his examination of the body without answering.  
"Sherlock, what are you doing here? Who let you in?"  
Sherlock still didn't speak, instead looking up for the open window -- no, balcony -- that the body had come from. There it was, on the sixth storey, with lights still on but nobody outside. He would not respond until Lestrade asked something worth answering. Preferably using the words, "Tell me what happened here."  
That wasn't Lestrade's next line.  
"Hello, earth to Sherlock?"  
When Sherlock still didn't answer, Lestrade moved in close to look directly at him.  
"All right there? No. Shit. Bloody hell. You're high. You can't be here like this, Sherlock."  
Sherlock was feeling his sense of invincible well-being recede, replaced by nausea, fogginess and chills. He had thought he would be home and in bed by now. Or home and taking another hit. He rejected the idea of another hit here. He didn’t think Lestrade would charge him with anything for being high, or search his clothing for more drugs, but actually shooting up in front of him might be a step too far.  
Then again, he thought as his body swayed, more might not be the best idea.  
"Come on, sit over here," Lestrade said, tugging Sherlock back to the mouth of the alley and settling him against the wall. "This isn't one for you anyway. The only question is whether he fell accidentally or jumped. I guess he came home from a Halloween party totally pissed, wandered out to the balcony for air and the next thing the wife knew, he was gone. I’m thinking he leaned over the railing -- it’s not very high -- and overbalanced, but we have to see if there’s any evidence it was suicide. Donovan suggested he was off his rocker enough to think he really was Superman."  
"Pushed," Sherlock said.  
"Oh, come on," Lestrade said. "His wife's pregnant -- she wasn't feeling well so she didn't go to the party -- but they were happy and excited. She wouldn't have killed him."  
And he wouldn’t have committed suicide, Sherlock thought but didn’t say.  
"Two shades of lipstick on his neck," Sherlock said, "long strand of hair caught in his wedding ring, scuffs on the heels of his boots. Otherwise unmarked boots. Pushed."  
Now feeling exhausted as well as sick and shaky, Sherlock rested his head on his arms, which were folded around his knees.  
Lestrade looked at him a moment longer, then turned to the corpse, confirming the clues Sherlock had enumerated. "Donovan!" he called. "Let the DI know this might be a homicide. I'm gonna try to get Sherlock here into a cab."  
No sooner had he spoken than he heard the scrape of fabric against brick and a soft thud. Sherlock had slumped onto the alley floor.  
"Sherlock, wake up! Shit! Donovan, call an ambulance!"


	9. Doctor John, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends Halloween being a doctor

John bloody fucking hated Halloween.  
Scratch that. John bloody fucking hated holidays. Ordinary days were bad enough. People expected him to be polite, to smile, to care, even. He was a doctor, after all.  
But on holidays, everything ratcheted up a notch. People wished one another a happy whatever, and waited for their greetings to be returned. There were cheerful decorations everywhere -- smiling jack-o-lanterns and friendly ghosts and fluffy black cats for Halloween -- and children started acting like they’d overdosed on sugar at least two weeks before they actually acquired any candy.  
The thing was, Halloween had never been John’s thing, and right now, pretending to be happy was just too much. It was a costume he couldn't carry off. What was it Irene told Sherlock? That no matter how hard you try, disguise is always a self-portrait? Well, the popular, grinning boy that John had once been no longer existed, and any self-portrait that looked like that would have come off as a cruel caricature.  
At least John didn’t have to explain himself to anyone. His colleagues at the surgery tended to stay at arm’s length from him. They were always civil, always grateful for his help and often deferential to his greater experience when they came across something complicated. His patients respected professional boundaries; they wanted to tell him about their aches and pains, not hear about his tragedies.  
He didn’t have to worry about offending his friends’ sensibilities; it became clear after Sherlock died that all John’s friends were really Sherlock’s, and John simply couldn’t face them. Mrs. Hudson looked as though she’d lost a son; Molly couldn’t look at John without crying. Even Lestrade ran out of non-Sherlock topics of conversation in an uncomfortably short time. But none of them could blame John more than he blamed himself for the loss of the best and wisest man he ever knew.  
When John looked in the mirror as a child, he had seen himself as a grown-up doctor, a hero saving people’s lives on a daily basis. That dream had come to seem a bit ridiculous as he came to understand what a career in medicine would really be like. Then he joined the army, found the excitement he craved and treated patients on the knife edge between life and death. He’d thought he’d die himself when he lost all that, thought that he’d just fade away until no one could see him against the grey pavement.  
Then Sherlock appeared, larger than life, with his blazing intellect and a cold denial of feelings, hard and soft and in the end so human. Yet the last time he spoke to Sherlock face-to-face he called him “a machine.”  
John had stood in the cemetery only that morning and thought about joining Sherlock in his decision to leave the land of the living. He couldn’t do it, not because it was too hard, but because it would be too easy. He had to live, to endure the pain he caused by never telling his only real friend, the only person who looked at him and saw inside, how important he was. That he was loved.  
John left the cemetery that day and headed to work. Maybe he had changed since he was a student, but there were still plenty of medical workers who wanted Halloween off. Now they weren’t classmates who wanted to blow off steam; they were mums and dads who wanted to take their kids through the neighborhood.  
At least no one was likely to die in the surgery. Patients there were more likely to be suffering viruses -- advise rest, fluids, paracetemol or ibuprofen for fever -- or need management of chronic conditions such as hypertension or diabetes. There were a few minor injuries, or course, but nothing like what he’d handled every day in Afghanistan.  
Break time over, John scrubbed his hands through his greying hair, checked that the stethoscope was still round his neck and picked up the patient's file as he opened the door to the exam room.  
There he saw a pint-sized pirate, complete with dark curls, boots, a long coat and a plastic sword. The child cradled his left land in his lap, a cut across the palm seeping blood into the tea towel that was wrapped around it. A man -- his dad, most likely --- sat in the chair, reading something on a tablet. He looked up when John came in.  
“Who have we here?” John said, forcing a smile onto his face and into his voice. “Is this Blackbeard right in my surgery?”  
The boy looked up, big blue eyes showing a hint of amusement. “‘Course not,” he said. “I haven’t got a beard yet. You can call me William.”  
“Well, Captain William, I need to see your hand,” John said. “I can tell that sword didn’t cause such a puny little cut. So how did this happen?”  
“I wanted a dagger too,” William said.  
“He took a knife from the kitchen and tried to shove it in his boot, but he grabbed the blade with his palm,” the man said.  
“Well, no worries, mate,” John said. “This cut won’t turn you into Captain Hook. But I will have to clean this out. When I was a boy, a doctor would have had to stitch it up; you’re lucky. Now I can just glue it.”  
“Glue it? Like paper?” the boy asked, his eyes alight with curiosity. “Can I watch?”  
“Of course you can,” John said, laying his supplies on the worktop. “And I can tell you about a friend I had who always wanted to be a pirate.”


	10. Sherlock's Going to a Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets ready for a Halloween party

It was far too warm for the end of October.  
Of course, Sherlock couldn’t wear his beloved Belstaff anyway, but he wore a leather jacket over his cotton trousers and shirt and it was too warm. He lifted the hat off his ginger short hair and mopped the sweat away with large blue handkerchief. A long leather bullwhip was coiled at his belt.  
He wasn’t entirely sure who he was supposed to be; he knew it was a character from one of those American action movies John liked so much, but he’d deleted the name as soon as Mycroft’s minion told him.  
He had been supplied this costume and a printed invitation to a Halloween party in Naples by Mycroft's man, who looked even more uncomfortable in Italy than Sherlock felt. The only thing Italian about the man were his shoes; the rest of him was as pale and British as clotted cream. The man, whose name Sherlock never learned, told him that Joseph Moore -- aka Giuseppe Moreno -- would be at the party wearing a Zorro costume. Zorro. Black cape and mask.  
Moreno was Moriarty’s link to the Italian mafia, and responsible for both human and drug trafficking from North Africa and Asia into Europe. There was no way that Moore/Moreno would be brought to justice by a court, and the only way to sever the chain was to remove the man permanently.  
Sherlock took a seat at a cafe, a small cup of espresso in front of him, looking acceptably nondescript in his neutral trousers and shirt. The more flamboyant parts of the costume, the hat and the jacket and whip, he placed on the chair next to him. He lit a cigarette and arranged his posture to “relaxed.”  
He had at least an hour before he could reasonably arrive at the villa overlooking the sea, and he planned to enjoy it. The fact was, Moreno would not be the only mafioso there, and Sherlock could not guarantee a successful outcome. An unsuccessful outcome could mean that Sherlock would be as dead as John thought he was.  
John would never know if Sherlock was killed at a Halloween party in Naples. It didn’t matter, Sherlock told himself; John thought he was already dead. Sherlock would have liked to have John with him for this one; the feeling of unequivocally loyal eyes on his back, a gun with unerring aim, an indisputable moral compass, Sherlock could have used all that.  
Not to mention a mischievous grin, an admiring look, eyes such a deep blue you couldn’t determine their color until you were up close and right in his personal space.  
Sherlock sighed, blowing a thin stream of smoke between his lips. John. No, he couldn’t say he wanted John here. He’d put John in danger too many times already. John had been kidnapped, shot at, wrapped in explosives, all because of him. He knew John needed the excitement, the adrenaline of participating in his cases; he had seen the way John’s hands grew more steady, not less, when facing a threat. But Sherlock would not be the reason the world was deprived of John Watson. He had left John to keep him safe.  
Sherlock wondered if John ever thought of him. No, that was maudlin. Of course John thought of him, living in 221B Baker St. He wondered if John missed him. He wondered if John had moved downstairs to his bedroom. He wondered if John thought of him while he was in his bed.  
Stop. Thinking like that would not help. Instead, Sherlock imagined John sitting across from him at the cafe table, teasing him gently about the costume, complaining about how American holiday customs spread throughout the world with the Americans’ dominance of television and film and other popular culture. John, bless him, might even see the irony in saying that to Sherlock while he was dressed as … somebody.  
What would John wear as a Halloween costume? Sherlock thought he’d make a tremendous pirate mate, in a tight striped shirt, braces and breeches and boots, maybe a scarf over his head and a hoop earring. John’s golden skin betrayed years in the sun; he’d pass easily here as a British expat, looking for some sun by the sea.  
Sherlock tamped out his cigarette and closed his thoughts of John back in their box. If he wanted to live to see All Saints’ Day, he couldn’t afford distraction.


	11. Soldier John, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to a Halloween party together

“Sherlock! Sherlock, if we want to get there early we have to go!”  
John huffed and looked at himself in the mirror. He never thought he’d see himself in fatigues again, but Mycroft needed their help, and it involved going to a Halloween party. In costume. Sherlock had said not to worry, he’d take care of it.  
The fatigues were surprisingly authentic, even worn at the seams. Maybe Sherlock had asked Mycroft for help and gotten hold of real army-issue clothes? The boots were real; he’d brought those back with him and they still fit his feet. He’d forgotten how comfortable those boots were. Too bad they weren’t more appropriate in the city.  
John looked up when he heard the snick of Sherlock’s door opening. Sherlock emerged slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen.  
John would not have given up the sight that met his eyes for the world. Tall leather boots; skin-tight breeches; a loose white shirt topped with a snug waistcoat and huge great coat that was as dramatic as the Belstaff. The black hat was decorated with a white plume.  
Sherlock made a magnificent pirate.  
John realized he was staring and cleared his throat and looked away. “We’d better leave,” he said again, picking up the beret that came with his costume. Yeah, John was pretty sure the uniform was genuine.  
*****  
John couldn’t suppress a giggle as they made their way back into the flat, more tumbling over one another than actually walking.  
“I can’t believe you actually got drunk on a case,” John said, still chuckling as he removed the beret and started to unbutton the fatigue shirt. “Get that gear off and come to the loo. I need to have a look at you.”  
Sherlock -- drunk Sherlock, who had the dubious grace of gangly puppy just growing into its legs -- stopped and stared at John, like he didn’t understand what he had just heard. When he saw John’s fingers at his buttons, his expression went from mystified to ... what was that? Nervous? Excited?  
Truth be told, John thought, he’d had one or two too many to decipher Sherlock’s expressions.  
“What are you looking at me like that for?” John said, easing the shirt off and hanging it over the banister to take upstairs with him later. “I don’t think that cut under your eye needs stitches, but I want to be sure. Christ, Sherlock, did you have to say all that to him? Just get into comfortable clothes so I can see to it.”  
Sherlock’s face clicked back to a more neutral expression, this one with a hint of fondness, John thought. That must be the alcohol.  
“Of course, John,” Sherlock said. “I’ll just be a moment.”  
John pulled out a couple of clean flannels, some butterfly bandages and a tube of antibiotic cream while he waited for Sherlock, going over in his mind the events leading up to his injury. Sherlock had solved the mystery within 20 minutes of arrival, and told Mycroft so.  
“Really, Mycroft, he comes to a Halloween party dressed as Voldemort and you can’t tell he’s the villain?” Sherlock said.  
John had felt momentarily proud of having introduced Sherlock to the Harry Potter movies as part of his ongoing campaign to familiarize him with popular culture, especially since Mycroft looked confused at the reference. Then Sherlock went on, the ridiculous feather in his hat bobbing as he spoke: “Did you see his robes? No one else in there has pockets big enough to hide the cup. It had to be him. I just had to follow him to catch him making the exchange at the side door.”  
John had resigned himself to leaving early then, heading home and watching telly or going to his room to watch a film on his laptop. He and Sherlock hadn’t been as easy together as they used to be since he moved back in, and he often avoided the tension by going upstairs.  
To his surprise, Sherlock had turned to him and said, “Well, we might as well enjoy ourselves then, right?” and snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray.  
It had been a couple of hours and John didn’t know how many drinks (for Sherlock ... not that John was trying to count) later that Sherlock loomed up behind him. John was trying to diplomatically deflect comments on his costume from someone dressed as Batman. The ersatz superhero had objected to John's soldier costume because it glorified violence, he said.  
John had been holding it together -- barely -- while maintaining that soldiers did not glorify violence. If anything, he thought privately, they knew the cost of war better than anyone.  
Sherlock skipped any attempt at diplomacy, weighing in loudly with comments about the fabric technology necessary to squeeze the man into the costume.  
“Of course, there’s one one area where you aren’t really big enough to fill it out,” Sherlock had said, looking pointedly at the man’s groin. “You really could do better than a pair of socks.”  
That’s when the first punch landed.  
By the time John got the man restrained and Mycroft’s men had escorted him out none too gently, Sherlock had a cut under his eye and a split lip. The man’s nose was probably broken (courtesy of John) and his eye blacked (courtesy of John again). John had stopped short of dislocating his elbow when he twisted the man’s arm up behind his back; no need to confirm his suspicions about soldiers.  
The handcuffs were courtesy of Sherlock, who mentioned to the agents that the man was stealing and selling military secrets.  
“Really, Mycroft calls us here to save an antique cup,” Sherlock sniffed (an antique cup that William the Conqueror drank from, John added in his mind), “and doesn’t even notice the spy. Come along, John. Let’s go home.”  
John had felt a warmth bloom in his abdomen. Sherlock looked even more piratical with the blood on his face.  
He had to get himself under control, John thought. He’d worked so hard to keep his attraction to Sherlock to himself; he loved the git, and if the only way he could have him was as a friend and flatmate, that was fine. But he wasn’t going to make heart eyes at Sherlock all the while. If he did, Sherlock would feel uncomfortable, might even pity him. Or he would take the piss every opportunity. Much better to keep it a non-issue.  
John was still telling himself that when Sherlock appeared in the doorway from his bedroom, leaning bonelessly against the doorjamb. Sherlock was dressed in a threadbare t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms; his eyes wandered over John’s snug-fitting sand-coloured vest, the multi-terrain camouflage fatigue trousers, the worn boots.  
“Don’t you want to …” Sherlock trailed off.  
John sniggered as he stopped himself from completing the sentence “... slip into something more comfortable?” Instead, he answered, “I’ll change when we’re done here. Sit.”  
Sherlock sat on the closed lid of the toilet while John dampened a flannel, using it to gently wipe the blood from Sherlock’s face.  
“The last time I treated a pirate,” John said, “he was six years old, and you were dead. I told him all about my friend who wanted to be a pirate, and how dashing and clever and brave he was."


	12. Pirate Sherlock, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John return from a Halloween party

Sherlock leaned against the door and watched John pulling plasters and flannels from the cabinet. John, still looking like Captain Watson in fatigue trousers and boots, his beige vest snug enough for Sherlock to watch the play of muscles and see the outline of the cratered scar on his shoulder.  
The moments leading up to now flashed before him like a series of snapshots: Mycroft “requesting” his help on this case, with a clear reminder that Sherlock owed him for getting him out of a suicide mission in Serbia; the way John looked when Sherlock exited his bedroom and saw him in uniform (When you ask Mycroft for a uniform, you get the real thing, not a costume imitation); the way John’s eyes had skittered to a halt when he looked up and saw Sherlock in his pirate costume.  
Sherlock had worried John would find it too flamboyant. Apparently not.  
The case was dull, but John was magnificent. Sherlock recalled the heat in his veins when he saw Batman (the traitor) keeping John’s attention, making John angry, the transcendence of John being liberated to use his fists in Sherlock’s defence. No, he hadn’t had to say all that, Sherlock thought. But John already wanted to punch the man; Sherlock provided him with an excuse.  
He’d been drunk on John, and maybe a little on the champagne, when they stumbled in and John told him to remove his costume and just for one moment Sherlock thought what it would be like if John meant for something other than tending to his wounds, minor as they were.  
Now he wished John was in his pajamas as well; he felt off balance and at a disadvantage. But when he started to suggest it, he realized how it sounded and trailed off.  
John stayed in character as Captain Watson, ordering him to sit on the closed toilet lid, and he complied. John squatted in front of him, bringing their faces nearly level.  
Sherlock let his gaze fall on the wall opposite, concentrating on not betraying his pleasure as John's gentle fingers probed the cut on his cheekbone and then dabbed it with a warm, damp flannel. He was cataloging the different touches John used -- rubs and pats and even pokes and prods, a tender stroke of John's thumb on his jaw -- did John know he was doing that?  
John's voice broke into his thoughts.  
“The last time I treated a pirate,” John said, “he was six years old, and you were dead. I told him all about my friend who wanted to be a pirate, and how dashing and clever and brave he was."  
John sounded sad. Sherlock knew why he jumped, knew he hadn't any choice, at least not any that he recognized at the time, but now, after having so much time to absorb how John had been affected, he wished -- not that he hadn't done it, because John would be dead, and that would be intolerable; but that he'd found an alternative, or a way to let John know that it wasn't real. He'd come to believe that his false suicide truly had killed something in John, but he wasn't sure whether it was the suicide or the deception that had done more damage.  
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said. Again. He meant it, but it was never enough.  
"No, Sherlock, you don't have to apologize," John said. "It was one of the few times when you were gone that I could smile when I talked about you. That kid reminded me of you, of what you might have been like when you were little. He was bright and curious and beautiful, and he wanted to be a pirate, too. And he made me remember how beautiful and clever you were."  
Dashing? Beautiful? Sherlock knew he was clever, knew John knew he was clever, but beautiful?  
John's fingers had stopped moving, and his indigo eyes were fixed on Sherlock's face.  
"I'm sorry I moved on," John said. "I never told you before you died, but I loved you. And then you died, and I felt like I died too. Then I didn't want to feel like I was dead anymore, but it never felt like I really alive. It was like I was just pretending."  
There was so much that was wrong in what John said. Sherlock blinked, and looked at John, bringing a hand to curl around the back of John's neck and keep him from moving away.  
"You loved me?" Sherlock asked. "You mean ..."  
"I mean I was in love with you, and I should have told you," John said. “I thought if I had told you, you wouldn’t have felt so alone, and maybe you wouldn’t have died.”  
"What about now?" Sherlock asked. He had to know if the small bubble of hope that rose in his abdomen had any business there. But John didn't immediately respond.  
Sherlock pushed ahead.  
"I never wanted you to feel like that. You don't have to apologize for moving on; that's what anyone would have expected," he said. "I had no right to expect you to wait. I made you believe I was never coming back."  
"Did you want me to wait?" It was John's turn to ask a question that went unanswered. After a moment, John continued.  
"The thing is, you did come back, but I just kept on moving on," John went on. "I was so angry, and I convinced myself that if you really cared for me, the way I did for you, you never could have done that. So I had to keep moving on, or I'd do something we'd both regret. And I couldn't lose you again."  
"I'll never leave you again," Sherlock whispered. "And I'd regret doing nothing more than doing something."  
He dipped his head towards John's, and hesitated. This had to be John's choice, too.  
John tipped his head up and brought his lips to brush against Sherlock's, exhaling a trembling sigh before returning to press his lips more firmly against Sherlock's. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumbler at [JustLookFrightened](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened)


End file.
